Family Night
by kellyofsmeg
Summary: Not every Christmas memory for Sam and Dean is best left forgotten. Inspired by his current girlfriend, Dean wants to have a Family Night and he has big plans. But first he has to convince Sam and John to even be in the same room as each other. A Christmas!fic, pre-series, Teen!Chesters. Warning: Pro-John.
1. Chapter 1

**Family Night**

**by kellyofsmeg**

**Summary: Not every Christmas memory for Sam and Dean is best left forgotten. Inspired by his current girlfriend, Dean wants to have a Family Night and Dean has big plans. But first he has to convince Sam and John to even be in the same room as each other. A Christmas!fic, pre-series. Warning: Pro-John.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own****_ Supernatural._**

John Winchester was examining a fraudulently acquired coroner's report when he heard a knock on the door of his cramped, makeshift office. He glanced up distractedly, realizing that when he'd gone for a coffee refill he'd accidentally left his door open. Whenever they stayed somewhere with more than one room, an open door had always been an unspoken, yet mutually understood signal that he wasn't at a critical stage in his work and it was okay for his sons to interrupt him, as John tended to have a one-track mind and didn't bode well with distractions. Right now, John had intended for that door to be closed.

Dean was leaning in the doorway, the one who had rapped his knuckles on the open door to get his father's attention. "Hey, Dad?" Dean greeted, gauging how "in the zone" his father was, taking note of how John's eyes had barely flicked up to acknowledge his presence before looking back down at his papers. Dean inquired with his hand on the doorknob, "Is this a bad time?"

John tore his eyes away from the report and leaned back in his chair, scrubbing his hand over his unshaven face. He'd forgotten his own open-door policy, and he wasn't going to punish Dean for his mistake. Besides, he didn't have an actual confirmed case he was working yet; he was still in the investigation stage to determine if the string of murders in the Capitol were of a supernatural origin or not. He decided that he could spare a minute. "No, son, it's fine—what's on your mind?"

Dean hesitated before speaking, trying to gauge how long he had the floor by the rate at which his father was subconsciously tapping his pencil on his desk. Speaking quickly, Dean said, "Dad, you remember Lizzie, right?"

John rubbed his eyes as he strained his memory to match a somewhat-familiar name to a face of one of the many girls who had paraded through Dean's life."Is she that girl you met at school—the cheerleader?"

"No, that was Haley," said Dean.

"She's not the one who laughed like Fran Drescher, was she?" said John, sincerely hoping that Dean had moved on from that particular infatuation.

"No, that was Cece. Lizzy's the blonde I met on Tuesday when I went to pick up Sammy at the library the other day."

"Okay," said John, who found he was always one step behind in keeping up with Dean's rapidly changing love interests—and those were just the ones Dean told him about. "Lizzie. Right. Got it. What about her?"

"I went out with her last night—I borrowed the car, remember?"

"Yeah, I remember," said John slowly. He could tell Dean was building up to something, and he thought he had a pretty good idea what it was. He knew the routine: Friday night without a hunt planned, Dean talking about some girl—could only be one thing. "Fine, you can use the car again. Just be back by midnight. I need you to suit up and go back to the morgue with me first thing tomorrow morning. They just got another body in. Could offer some more clues to what we're dealing with and if it's even worth our time. Here," John took the car keys from his pocket, weighing them in his hand. "Be careful. With the car, I mean. And, well, you know." He tossed the keys in a high arch to Dean.

Dean caught the keys easily. John smiled to himself. He'd gradually been allowing Dean to take his car out on his own more when he didn't need it, evaluating how well Dean took care of her. So far he'd been impressed, and little did Dean know that John had been in the market for a new truck—he had his eye on a 1986 step-side GMC Sierra Grande at a dealership near Pastor Jim's place in Blue Earth. He planned on signing the papers as soon as he secured the funds to buy the truck and pay with cash—hopefully by mid-January. Dean's eighteenth birthday was the twenty-fourth of January, and John fully intended to hand over the keys to the Impala to his eldest son. It was the best right-of-passage present he could think of; it had sentimental value, was dependable, and would give his oldest son a measure of well-earned freedom.

Dean stared down at the keys in his hand. "Thanks, Dad. But that actually wasn't what I was gonna ask you," said Dean, setting the keys down on John's desk and rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably.

John leaned forward, crossing his arms on the desk and scrutinizing his seventeen-year-old son, noticing his general air of unease, the way he was averting his eyes and mussing the bristling hair on the back of his head. He actually looked _nervous_, which wasn't at all like Dean, and made him wonder what the hell could be getting him so worked up. Dean wasn't always the easiest person to figure out, especially since he had inherited his father's infuriating habit of internalizing everything. Right now, John made an educated guess that his kid was having some girl trouble. But instead of jumping to further conclusions, he elected to save time and let Dean tell him himself.

"Something wrong, kiddo?" John asked with forced casualness. "Not in trouble, are you?"

Trouble was a broad term John held for any and all of the extra-curricular activities Dean could possibly be engaged in. Dean was almost eighteen, almost a man—and John allowed him freedoms as he earned them. He could tell from the moment Dean had hit puberty that he would likely be susceptible to the major pitfalls of adolescence; already possessing a bad-boy mentality and a more-than-healthy dose of curiosity for all there was for his body to experience. In Dean's early teens, John had been upfront and lectured his son to death about the dangers of excessive drinking, drug use, smoking, unprotected sex, and had made a few idle threats, trusting his son not to go off the deep end and steering him back on the right path when necessary. While he was absolute on his orders when it came to hunting and basic survival, John didn't try to micromanage Dean's personal life and was willing to turn a blind eye to most of what he considered normal teenage curiosity as long as it didn't get in the way of their job, draw the attention of the authorities, or result in self-destructive behaviors.

"No, it's nothing like that, Dad," said Dean. "It's just...I went out with Lizzie last night. We caught a B-movie at the drive-in, got some greasy burgers and fries—it was pretty much as romantic as it gets. Then she invited me back to her place. I thought we were maybe gonna..." Dean jerked his head to the side twice, having the good grace to at least look awkward when he remembered he was talking to his father. "...you know."

"Am I gonna want to hear the rest of this story, Dean?" John asked warily, none-too-eager to hear the details of his son's sexual exploits.

"Don't worry, Dad," Dean smirked. "It has a happy ending."

"That's what I was afraid of," said John heavily. "Continue. But censor everything, please."

Dean launched back into his story with vigor. "So we we get to Lizzie's house—and it was like this two-story mini mansion, and her parents were there and she had like, half a dozen brothers and sisters running around. And having a girl's parents around is always a red flag. I tried to bail, but they practically forced me to stay. It was weird. They were just breaking out the rope and shackles when I agreed to stick around. Relax, Dad—it's a figure of speech," Dean said, as John sat up straighter in his chair. "Plus there was homemade pie and these awesome milkshakes, so how could I refuse? And we played these cheesy board games...and I know it sounds lame, but once I got into it, it was actually kinda fun," said Dean, still looking perturbed that it was possible to have a good time with a girl without removing any articles of clothing. "A good, G-rated time was had by all."

"I did wonder why you were back home so early last night..." John mused. Feeling grateful that he didn't have to blot out any graphic mental images from his head, he asked, "Was there something else to it?"

"Yeah," said Dean. He looked like he was working up the courage to say something else. "It's just...I was wondering if we could try something like that. Just the three of us—a sort of...family night."

Dean said this in a rush, and instantly his face colored with embarrassment, the words sounding unbelievably corny to his own ears. "Just for a couple of hours." He anxiously watched for his Dad's reaction, already regretting asking.

Having listened to Dean's pitch, John sat back, considering his first-born like he was a five-hundred piece jigsaw puzzle where none of the pieces seemed to fit together. He'd been wondering where Dean was going with his story, and somehow hadn't been able to arrive at this outcome. "You want us to have a family night?" he repeated, stalling for time to mask his surprise at Dean's proposition.

"Yeah, I know it sounds a bit too Osmond family for our tastes, but I dunno...I thought it might be fun," Dean shrugged. "Should be good for morale."

John clicked his tongue, knowing _exactly _what Dean was referring to: the tumultuous relationship between him and Sam. "Dean, I—" John was surprised when Dean dared to interrupt him.

"It's just that you, me and Sammy never spend any time together anymore unless we're on a hunt or stuck in the car going off to another hunt—we're all so busy doing our own things all the time. You're always working on a case, Sammy's always geeking out with his books, I'm always..." Dean stopped there, afraid of incriminating himself; it was one thing for his Dad to suspect the sort of activities he engaged in—it was another thing to confess them. "And then you and Sammy are always trying to tear each other a new one. We never just hang out as a family. I just thought it sounded, I dunno...wholesome."

"It's not a bad idea, Dean," said John unfeigned, deciding not to inquire about what it was Dean was always up to. "You're right. We should do more as a family...just not tonight, okay, pal? I've got to finish reading these reports before tomorrow."

Dean smiled too widely, talked too quickly. "Sure. Okay. No problem, Dad," and almost ran into the floor lamp as he hastily retreated from the room.

John stared at the spot where Dean had been standing, finding himself feeling rather disappointed that Dean had backed down so easily. Had it been Sam that had proposed the idea, they both would have argued about it until his blood pressure was through the roof and Sam looked ready to start throwing punches. He was used to Dean taking his word as gospel and Sam challenging everything he said. John could have stated that grass was green and Sam would argue with him about it, coming up with circumstances where it would be brown or yellow, or that it would look different to someone who was color-blind, and turn it into a philosophical debate for good measure. For once, John found himself wishing Dean would take a page out of his brother's book and fight for himself; his idea hadn't been half-bad.

John closed the folder on the coroner's report and called, "Dean?"

Dean reappeared in the doorway a moment later, standing at attention. "Yes, Sir?"

John appraised his eldest son before speaking. There was no flicker of hope in Dean's eyes that he might have decided to change his mind, just Dean's usual dutiful mask. He was a soldier awaiting instructions from his Commander, ready to carry out any order he was issued to the letter. John knew Dean had done everything he'd ever asked him to, without question or complaint. He never asked for anything in return. Dean had always been altruistic to the point of being self-sacrificing; taking care of everyone else with no regard for himself. John recognized that there had been no ulterior motives to Dean's proposal. As usual, he was just trying to hold their fragile, broken family together. Without Dean, they'd fall apart. John knew the very least he could do to pay Dean back for being a model son all these years was to go with his idea.

"Dean, about what you said earlier, that family night thing—"

"I'm sorry, Dad," said Dean immediately, his cheeks coloring. "Just forget about it. It was a stupid idea."

"No it wasn't," said John firmly. "I think we should do it."

"What—really?" said Dean, wondering if he'd heard right. "But I thought you had work to do for the case—"

"I do," said John. "But it'll still be here waiting for me when we're done."

"Are you sure?" said Dean, hardly daring to believe his Dad had even reconsidered his idea, much less deciding to grant it clearance; usually he made a ruling on a petition and that was the end of it. Unless Sam was the petitioner, in which case he'd argue endlessly and try to overrule the decision for days.

"Yeah, I am," said John, steepling his fingers together. "On two conditions."

Dean's smile froze on his face. "Sure. What are they?"

"One: you've got to convince Sammy to go for this, too," said John. "I've been Public Enemy Number One with him ever since I broke the news that we're moving to Minnesota after New Year's. Case or no case, whatever we're dealing with now should be wrapped up by then. The rent will be coming due and..." John trailed off. He didn't need to burden Dean with their financial difficulties—that was his problem. "I know how much Sammy likes it here...you'll be lucky to get him to agree to even be in the same _room_ as me right now."

"I think I can persuade him," said Dean, positive he could use guilt and mild brotherly torture techniques to cajole Sam into participating. "In fact, consider it done. What's the second thing?"

"I'm taking a back seat on this one," said John, putting up his hands. "You're totally in charge of making it happen, dude."

"Yes, Sir!" said Dean, his smile returning in full force.

"Go on, get your brother," said John, nodding towards the door. "It'll do his eyes good to get away from that computer screen for awhile."

Dean forgot the concept of dignity as he bounded from the office. _He really gets those heels up_, John noted as he shook his head bemusement, wondering what the hell he'd just signed up for and hoping, for Dean's sake, that his plan of playing Happy Families wouldn't backfire on him, vowing to do whatever he could to help the night go smoothly.

...

Thirteen-year-old Sam Winchester was hunched over the keyboard of his Macintosh Performa, a gift from his father for his eleventh birthday. In his lap was an open and well-read copy of _Great Expectations. _Sam's eyes were focused on the text, his fingers clicking rapidly over the keyboard as he transcribed a passage. He jumped violently and dropped his book when he heard the bedroom door burst open, hearing Dean's familiar shuffle behind him.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean greeted. "Kinda jumpy there, kiddo. What'cha looking at on that computer?"

"Not the sort of stuff _you _use my computer for, Dean," said Sam irritably. Dean leaned over Sam's shoulder to see the monitor, letting out a snort of disappointment when he recognized it was a book report. "Planning on winning a Pulitzer next, squirt?"

"No, just a good grade," Sam bent over to pick up his book, thumbing through the volume to find his place. There was a bite of irritation in his voice as he said, "Ever hear of knocking?"

"Why? This is my room, too," said Dean, grabbing a basketball off the floor and laying down on the rumpled sheets of his bed, tossing the ball up in the air and catching it. "And last time I checked, the rule was 'if the doorknob's not rockin' a sock, there's no need to knock.'"

"That's really more_ your_ rule for _my_ benefit, Dean," Sam pointed out. "You knew I was studying."

"It's Christmas vacation, Sammy!" Dean exclaimed, launching the basketball at Sam, who caught it, looking annoyed, as it had caused him to drop his book again. Dean sat up and looked around at all the books spread out on Sam's neatly made bed. "No way did your teacher assign this much homework. What is he, some kind of sadist?"

"No, actually. _Ms_. Ashmore knows I like to read, so she gave me a list of her favorite books on the last day before break," Sam explained. "She said to pick one to read over break and tell her that I thought about it. I didn't know which one to get, so I checked them all out. I'm writing reviews for them as I go."

"Wait—is this the same Ms. Ashmore that always wears those really tight sweaters?" said Dean slyly. Sam rolled his eyes. "But you probably like her for her other assets, huh? I'm sure you find her very inspiring."

"Shut up, Dean," Sam mumbled, his face going red.

"She's not bad as far as teachers go, Sammy. Not bad at all. But you know we're going to be at a different school after break, right?" Dean said, straining to gather up the books on Sam's bed without leaving his own.

"Yes," said Sam darkly, with a scowl to match. "I know. I was going to see if I could maybe get her address so I let her know what I thought of the books."

"Penpals with a teacher, Sammy," Dean said, teasing and impressed at the same time. "You know, there's a lot you can learn from an older woman."

Sam stared at his brother in disbelief. "You are seriously disturbed, Dean."

"At least I'm not a nerd," Dean retorted.

Sam spun around in his computer chair to fully face Dean. "What was Captain Kirk's first assignment after he graduated from the Starfleet Academy?"

"Navigator on the _USS Farragut," _Dean answered immediately. "Shut up," he mumbled as Sam folded his arms, grinning triumphantly. "Well, you had to be a nerd to even come up with that question in the first place."

"But I didn't know the answer," Sam snorted. "I'm taking your word for it. Nerd. You and Dad are the Trekkies, not me."

"You're just jealous your fingers aren't coordinated enough to do the Vulcan salute," Dean said, staring at the pile of books. "How many of these have you actually read so far?"

"About half of them," Sam answered, as Dean picked up the books one at a time, examining the covers.

"_Dante's Inferno..._okay, that one looks like it could actually be cool. Hahaha..._Moby Dick._ Is that some kind of disease?_ David Copperfield..._you still into that magic stuff, Sammy?" Dean asked, looking up. "It's been awhile since you pulled a coin out from behind my ear."

"...No," Sam said, using his toe to push his magic wand further beneath his desk, grateful when Dean went back to judging book covers.

"_Gone With the Wind..._chick book," said Dean, unceremoniously casting the novel aside. "_My Brother Sam is Dead..."_ Dean looked questioningly up at Sam, tossing that book aside, too. "Not so crazy about that title..." The book soared through the air and landed in the garbage can, knocking it over in the process. Dean threw up his hands out the sound. "Dude, I wasn't even looking!" he said proudly, as Sam marched past him to retrieve the library book, set the trash can upright and restore its contents.

"It was actually written by two brothers, Dean. It's pretty awesome," said Sam, brushing potato chip crumbs off the book's cover. "It's about the American Revolution, and this family who's still loyal to Great Britain, but Sam rebels against his father and leaves for—"

"Judging from the title, he gets himself killed 'cos he didn't listen to his Dad," said Dean with forced casualness, speaking over his brother. "Yeah, like I said—I don't like it."

"It's just a book, Dean," said Sam guardedly, dropping the book back in the pile.

"Yeah, whatever," Dean mumbled, picking up another volume. "_One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest—_I love that movie! _Beowulf..._this one looks freakin' awesome..._Nicholas Nickleby..._hey, isn't he that guy that's always picking fights with windmills?"

"No, Dean," said Sam, rolling his eyes. "That's Don Quixote."

"Donkey who?" said Dean blankly. "Now you're just making stuff up."

"Didn't you ever have to read _any _of these books in school, Dean?" Sam asked, exasperated.

"A few of them look kinda familiar," Dean said slowly, holding up _The Grapes of Wrath_. "If you mean, did I borrow a copy from the kid sitting next to me and skim through it five minutes before the test—then yes."

"You're unbelievable," Sam laughed shortly, shaking his head.

"Hey, it works! I just circle C for every fourth answer and guess on the rest," Dean responded. "Oh, and I watch movies in place of books whenever possible. With any luck, I get a nice, shiny D. I just hope we move before Dad remembers to ask to see my last report card. I don't know where you came from with that massive geek brain of yours."

"Come on, Dean. You're so full of crap," said Sam, brushing off the round-about compliment. "No one gets to their Senior year by guessing on everything, especially with how much we move around. You're smart. Give yourself some credit. "

"Yeah, well," Dean coughed awkwardly. "Believe it or not, I didn't come in here just to annoy you and get a pep talk. Come on. We're going to have a family night."

"A what?" said Sam blankly.

"Family night," Dean repeated. "You, me, and Dad—some quality time together."

Sam's eyes widened comically. "What did I do wrong?"

"What? Nothing—it's not a punishment, Sammy," Dean laughed. When Sam continued to look unconvinced, Dean said, "It was my idea, not Dad's. Come on—forced togetherness! It'll be fun."

"Dad agreed to this?" said Sam skeptically. "I thought he was researching that case tonight?"

"I convinced him to take a break," said Dean, as Sam's eyes further widened in surprise. "I know. Shocking. But he agreed to it as long as you do, so..."

"I dunno, Dean," said Sam slowly. "What would I have to do?"

"Leave your computer, for one thing," said Dean, "Just show up, follow my lead, put that angsty teenage stuff off on the back burner, try to keep the fighting with Dad at a minimum—"

"Yeah, but what would we actually _do?"_

"You really want me to tell you and ruin the surprise?" Sam crossed his arms stubbornly and Dean relented, "Fine. We're gonna get food, play some games, and try not to kill each other. Happy?"

"Dean, we don't do that kind of stuff," Sam frowned. "It's just not us."

"Would it kill us to try it? You're the one who's always wanting to be 'normal.' And apparently, normal families like to play Parcheesi."

"We don't have any board games, Dean," Sam pointed out.

"Yeah, well—we'll improvise. So are you in? Say you're in."

"If I say 'yes', that means I'll have to be in the same room as Dad," Sam said disdainfully.

"Obviously," said Dean, rolling his eyes. "Thus the whole 'family' part of the deal. C'mon, Sammy—you can't stay mad at him forever. It's not like it was a big shock when he said we're moving again. We solve a hunt, we move. We find another hunt. It's a whole pattern. Do you really just plan on moping in here hoping you'll get your way? 'Cos I'm telling you, man—you can outlive Dad sitting here waiting for him to change his mind about something this big."

"Ah, but if that happens, it would mean we didn't end up moving in a week so I got my way," said Sam, sticking out his tongue.

"You're real smart, you know that, Sammy?" said Dean, catching his little brother in a headlock.

"Let me go!" Sam cried, struggling against Dean's muscled arms.

"Only if you say you'll come," Dean said, tightening his choke hold.

"Boys," said John, appearing in the doorway. He didn't look at all surprised to see his sons tussling. "Are we doing this thing or not? Dean, ease up."

"Okay, Dad," Dean answered, loosening his grip slightly. "I'm almost done convincing him."

"Alright, alright—I'm in!" Sam gasped. Dean gave him a noogie for good measure and released him. Sam straightened up, rubbing his neck and scowling at the room at large.

Dean clapped Sam on the back. "You heard him Dad. He's in. Let's get this show on the road! I was thinking we could grab some grub first."

"Good idea," said John, tossing Dean his keys for the second time that night. "Go ahead and get the car warmed up, Dean. We'll be down in a minute."

Dean nodded wordlessly, correctly guessing that John wanted a word with Sam, and was more-than-eager to get out of their way. John stepped aside to allow Dean to slip by, heading down the stairs from their apartment.

John and Sam were now left in a face-off. Sam determinedly looked anywhere but at his father. The seconds dragged on, each waiting for the other to speak. In a sudden burst of nerves, Sam made a break for it, intent on the only exit that wasn't four floors up. Sam was fast, but John was able to easily side-step, blocking the door. Sam's short, wiry, thirteen-year-old frame collided with a six-foot-two wall of solid muscle.

"Hold on, Sam," said John, catching Sam by his shoulders as he stumbled backwards. "I wanna talk to you."

Sam gave his father a defiant glare in response. "About what?"

"Your tone, for one thing," said John. "Look, dude. I know you're pissed at me for making you move again. I get that. But Christmas is in just a few days, and I was really hoping the whole avoiding-me-silent treatment thing would be over by now. How long are you going to punish me for?"

Sam crossed his arms stubbornly in response, setting his jaw and taking a defensive stance—pivoting to close himself off.

"You wanna be like that? Fine," said John through gritted teeth. "Stay mad at me. But we're doing this for Dean. It's important to him, and we owe it to him for putting up with us all the time. Can we at least agree on that?"

Sam nodded mutely. For Dean, he'd do anything—even put up with his Dad's presence. "Fine."

"That means we're not gonna be at each others throats for at least a few hours," John continued. "Think that's manageable?" John shook Sam's shoulder when he failed to respond. "You hear me? I'm not asking a rhetorical question here."

"Yes, Sir," Sam responded resentfully, nose in the air.

"Good," said John curtly. He wanted to read Sam the Riot Act about his attitude, but decided now would be a good time to start practicing show of amicability between him and his youngest son for the benefit of his eldest—who would no doubt see right through it, but would hopefully appreciate their efforts.

"Get your coat," said John gruffly. "It's damn near freezing outside."

Sam retrieved his army-green colored parka from a hook on the wall, shrugging it on as he trailed behind his Dad down the hall and out the door. Sam went ahead while John locked up, going down four flights of stairs and out the front door of the building, stepping out into the frigid December night and bad-temperately kicking a scrunched-up beer can laying near the manager's office.

Dean was sitting in the driver's seat, and Sam could hear Dean blasting the Christmas music station through the sound system from twenty yards away, a strange departure from his usual head-banging classic rock. Sam clambered into the backseat and a few moments later John slid into the passenger's seat. Sam's teeth were already chattering from the brief exposure to the bitter cold, and the heat of the car was a welcome relief.

"What—Metallica never did a cover of 'Jingle Bell Rock?'" Sam shouted.

"I thought you Scrooges could use some holiday cheer," Dean had to yell over the sound of sleigh bells to be heard.

"You're not gonna make us do a sing along, are you?" John asked.

"Only if you're lucky," Dean quipped.

"Let's go," said John, reaching to turn the music down to a tolerable level.

Dean put the car into reverse, pulling out of their designated spot and peeling out of the apartment lot. "You guys cool with Biggerson's?" before Sam or John had time to respond, Dean smirked and said, "Well, tough! I'm in charge."

"And don't make me regret it," said John, casting a glance over his shoulder at Sam, almost certain that he had seen a ghost of a smile on his face before it quickly vanished into his usual scowl.

TBC

...

AN: I started this story months ago, and decided to finally finish it in time for Christmas now that I am done with college and graduated (yay!) There's two more chapters. So I hope that you're enjoying so far and that there were enough pop culture references in this chapter for you ;)

Also, I am going off _John Winchester's Journal _canon, which states that John gave Dean the Impala for his 18th birthday.


	2. Chapter 2

The curvy blonde waitress at Biggerson's showed the three Winchesters to their table and provided them with menus. Sam slid onto the bench of the booth, scooting over to the window seat. Dean sat beside Sam as usual, and John took a seat across from them.

"Thanks, sweetheart," Dean winked at the waitress as she poured him a glass of water. Dean found himself staring at her ample chest before remembering he had also intended to read her name tag. "Think I might be able to get a cold one instead, Nikki?"

The waitress straightened up, looking from Dean's face—the matured features of a man, a light bristling along his jaw line, clearly still straddling the cusp of adolescence and manhood where it was possible for him to be anywhere from eighteen to twenty-five. She looked to the man who, judging by his resemblance, had to be his father, for reassurance.

"He's joking," John explained to the waitress. "He's underage."

"Oh!" Nikki laughed in appreciation, and for a moment it looked like she was going to pinch Dean's cheek and coo, "Aren't you adorable!" But the next words out of Nicki's mouth were, "Can we start you off with any appetizers?"

John looked to his sons. Sam shrugged to show his indifference. Dean, who still felt like he'd been demoted from stud to kindergartener, mumbled, "Some onion rings would be cool."

"Onion rings it is, then," said John.

"And what would you like to drink that's age-appropriate, honey?" Nicki asked Dean.

"A Coke," Dean scowled, crossing his arms.

"Just water for me, please," said Sam politely.

"What the hell. I'm not driving. Give me a beer," said John. As he expected, this got a rise out of Dean, his expression scandalized. Chuckling, John said, "On second thought, strike that. I'll have a Coke, too," He winked at Dean. "Solidarity."

"Coming right up," Nicki said, tucking her pencil behind her ear and heading off for the kitchen.

"Thanks, Dad," Dean smiled in false-appreciation. "I have my fake ID on me. And the waitress was totally digging me until you told her—"

"What, that you're jail bait?" Sam piped up.

"Only until next month," Dean said defensively. "Then I'm legal and open game for waitresses everywhere."

"Hey, you're the one who wanted tonight to be 'wholesome'," John reminded him. "I took that to mean there wouldn't be any boozing or picking up waitresses. Besides, you're our Master of Ceremonies, remember?"

"Yeah, and they're never drunk," Dean mumbled.

"_And _you've already gone out with waitresses," Sam pointed out. "I liked Sandy, the one from Omaha. She always gave us free milkshakes."

"Going out with a waitress definitely has its perks, young Skywalker," Dean said, as if imparting some great wisdom. "Their service is _excellent_."

"Dean," said John sharply. "D'you really think that's something your little brother needs to hear?"

"What?" Dean flashed an innocent smile. "I just meant that they're good at their jobs. No way could I wear a dress that tight and carry a platter or five around without dropping them. Although, that's not always a bad thing when they do..."

"Sure you just want water, kiddo?" John said to Sam, eager to change the topic. "It's Christmas—treat yourself. Anything you want."

Sam tapped his chin. "Well, I was going to order black coffee, but..."

"But no. It's too close your bedtime," John finished, choosing to ignore Sam's muttered, "_but I knew you'd say that." _He picked up the menu and looked at the drinks section. "Pick something else—there's apple cider, hot chocolate, eggnog..." John looked up as Nicki approached with a tray of their drinks and appetizers. "Can we get an eggnog, too?"

"Sure thing," said Nicki brightly, setting the drinks down in front of their respective recipients.

"I don't want eggnog, Dad," Sam said petulantly.

"What're you talking about?" said John dismissively, diving into the onion rings. "You love eggnog."

"I _used_ to love eggnog," Sam said. "I don't anymore."

"Since when?" John demanded. The waitress hovered awkwardly over their table, torn between waiting for the official order and not wanting to be caught in the middle of a minor family dispute.

Dean decided to take over. "He hasn't liked eggnog since last Christmas when he drank too much of the stuff and upchucked it everywhere."

"That was at Caleb's, right?" said John, the memory of the event slowly returning to him. "Knowing him, are you sure it wasn't laced with something stronger?"

"Yes, Dad," said Sam, with a roll of his eyes. "I think I would have tasted the difference."

"Relax, Sam. I was just asking a question," John said with forced calm, remembering the pact he'd made with Sam to not ruin things for Dean. He only hoped Sam would start upholding his side of the deal.

"So—are we ready to order?" Nicki nervously interrupted, notepad and pencil poised in her hands. She turned her attention to Sam. "How about you, sweetie?"

"I'll have the Cobb salad, please._ No_ eggnog," said Sam pointedly, folding up his menu. His eyes briefly locked defiantly with John's before they both looked away.

"And you, charmer?" Nicki inquired of Dean.

Dean's face reddened with the memory of being ousted as a minor. "I'm having trouble deciding between all the things that have meat in them. Dad, what're you getting?"

"The Bacon Cheese Slammer," John responded. He looked at Nikki, "That comes with the beer-battered fries, right?"

"Right."

"That sounds good—I'll have the same," said Dean. "Extra onions."

The waitress collected their menus, smiled at all of them, and said, "Coming right up!"

"Cobb salad, eh?" Dean ribbed Sam. "Still counting calories, Sammy? You'll never be fighting inside your weight group if you keep eating rabbit food."

John watched his sons. He knew Dean was joking, and that Sam looked to be in no mood for it. "Leave him alone, Dean."

"What?" said Dean innocently. "I'm just joking around! You know that, right, Sammy?"

Sam, who was particularly small and scrawny for his age and annoyingly aware of it said, "I'm just trying to be the only one in this family not destined to have a heart attack before I hit fifty."

"What's the point of living that long if you can't enjoy the little things, Sammy?" said Dean. "We're men. We need meat. And cheese. And whatever the hell is in that secret sauce. Besides, we work it off hunting, don't we, Dad?"

John shrugged non-commitedly, answering shortly, "Yeah. Probably."

"You always take Dean's side," Sam grumbled.

"What?" said John, truly feeling like he could do no right. "Sammy, I—"

"It's Sam," he corrected.

"I'm not taking anyone's side here,_ Sam_," said John hotly. "There's no side to take."

"So!" said Dean loudly, surreptitiously digging around in his mind of an opener for an amicable and unanimously appreciated conversation-starter. "How about those Jayhawks?"

Dean's diversion worked like a charm, leading to a civilized and engaged conversation, where the common enemy was the referee's calls and not each other. John was talking his boys through the intricate beauty of the play that had won the game when their food arrived.

"It smells awesome," said Dean, lifting his burger to his mouth and taking a huge bite. "Mmm..."

Sam speared a chunk of baby corn with his fork as Dean said, "So, Sam, have you decided what you're gonna do with that prize money yet?" Dean winced as he received a side-kick under the table. "Hey!"

Sam glared sharply at Dean, and mouthed, "_Shut up!" _But the damage was already done.

John looked suspiciously between his two sons before demanding, "What prize money?"

Dean made a guilty "o" with his lips before saying, "...you didn't tell him?"

"Tell me what?" said John impatiently.

"You might as well just tell him the rest, Dean," Sam scowled into his salad, dropping his fork and sitting back with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Sorry. I didn't realize it was such a big secret," said Dean, exasperated.

"One of you had better tell me what the hell you're talking about," said John in his best no-nonsense voice.

Dean sighed, jerking his thumb at his brother. "Sammy here entered some essay writing contest at the library. He wrote some paper about that asteroid that wiped out all the dinosaurs—"

"The geologic time scale from the Cambrian Explosion through the Cretaceous-Tertiary mass extinction," Sam clarified.

"Right, that. And he got first place and a three hundred and fifty dollar prize! It wasn't even a contest for kids. Second place was some grad student. This kid's a genius," said Dean proudly, getting Sam in a headlock for the second time that night and giving him a noogie. Sam had tried to duck and cover but was too slow, and when he was released, his hair was sticking out in all directions. "I read his essay. It was really good—the parts that I understood, anyway."

John sat in stunned silence for a moment before smiling and saying, "Sammy, that's great! When was this?"

"I'd say it was when you were gone, but that wouldn't exactly narrow down the time frame," said Sam resentfully. "They're all starting to blur together."

John grit his teeth and willed his suddenly flaring temper to simmer down, ultimately acknowledging that the source of his anger was that he knew Sam was right. He deserved to be called out; in the past few months he'd been away more than he'd been home, with jobs taking longer than he'd anticipated. He'd tried to tell himself the boys were old enough to be left alone without his absence taking a toll on them. He was furious at himself, realizing he'd been wrong, forgetting how young Sam especially still was, despite his outward maturity and John convincing himself his boys didn't need him when they had each other.

John spoke with restraint, not wanting Sam to think his anger was directed towards him. "Then why didn't you tell me when I got back?"

Sam stared down at his hardly eaten salad. "I honestly didn't think you'd care."

Dean looked quickly from Sam's bowed head to his father, and saw the hurt clear on his face before it was masked by something more like a grimace. He took a deep breath and said, "Sammy...I know that sometimes I don't exactly seem gung-ho about school or stuff like essay contests, but don't you ever think that I don't care or that I'm not interested in your life. Because I am." Now it was his turn to bow his head. "I just get so wrapped up in the job sometimes that...that I may not listen to you like I should, or be as attentive as I ought to be." He raised his gaze back up to Sam. "But I want you to keep right on calling me out on it, and I promise I'll try to do better. Okay?"

"Okay, Dad," said Sam quietly, and Dean could have sworn he saw the corners of his lips twitch in what was almost a smile.

"You still got a copy of that essay?" John asked after a pause.

"Yeah..." said Sam, raising one eyebrow. "Why?"

"'Cos I want to read it, of course," John said with sincerity. "Put it on my desk soon as we get home. I'll read it before I even go back to working on the case."

This time, John got a genuine smile out of Sam. "Okay, I will." John reached across the table and also mussed up Sam's hair so that he now had a thorough bed head. For the first time in ages, he didn't flinch away at his father's gesture of affection.

"Any idea what you're gonna go with the money yet, Sammy?" Dean asked, pleased at the rare amicable exchange between his father and brother. Maybe if he closely navigated the proceedings and kept playing mediator, tonight had the potential not to be a total disaster after all. "350 bucks can buy a lot of arcade game tokens."

"Nah. I think I'll save it," said Sam thoughtfully. "For when I see something that I _really _want."

"Smart thinking, son," said John, nodding his approval as he finally picked up his burger. "Save up. Don't blow it on anything short-lived or for cheap thrills."

"Where's the fun in that?" Dean balked.

Sam tuned out his father and brother discussing what each considered to be poor and wise financial decisions while he guiltily thought about his real plans for the money, the 350 dollars, along with any money he'd earned from his allowance or doing lawn work for little old ladies across the country, was all being saved. Sam was no spendthrift and had always been good at saving his money, unlike Dean. His earnings were currently sitting in a Converse shoebox underneath his bed: 608 dollars so far—his secret college fund, inspired by his English teacher at Truman High, Mr. Wyatt. He'd only been a pupil of Mr. Wyatt's for a month, but he had left a life-changing impression on Sam; made him realize he didn't have to go into the family business. He could get away, go to college—be whoever he wanted to be. Of course, he hadn't told his Dad or Dean yet, knowing they would both flip out. So in the meantime, the money under his bed was still for a "rainy day" and not college tuition.

Sam's attention snapped back to the conversation when he heard Dean say his name. "Or maybe he could just take Ms. Ashmore out for a romantic evening, eh, Sammy? You can tell her all about how much you loved _Gone With the Wind._"

Sam's cheeks colored as John said, "Ms. Ashmore? Isn't she one of your teachers, Sam?"

"Yes," Sam mumbled into his glass of water.

"But he wants her to be so much more," Dean teased.

"Do not!" said Sam, hitting Dean's arm. As much as he hated to admit it, Sam's punches actually hurt now. He massaged his bicep and said, "Hey! Relax, little brother—I'm just kidding around..."

"Dad," said Sam, a sudden idea for revenge coming to his mind. "Did Dean tell you he was nominated for Homecoming King back in Richmond?"

John had been midway through taking a sip of his Coke when he heard this press-stopping bit of news. He choked and sputtered, stopping short of doing a full-blown spit-take. Dean—Homecoming King? With the whole sash, staff and crown getup...it was so _not _Dean on so many levels that he found it hysterical. "No, he didn't tell me that," John coughed some more, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and smiling appreciatively at Dean, who looked both put-out and livid. John couldn't blame Sam for wanting a little payback after Dean ousted him for both the essay contest prize money and crushing on a teacher; Dean had it coming.

Dean clenched his teeth in humiliation and hissed, "You are _so_ dead for that, Sammy..."

John recovered enough to ask, "Dean, you weren't even at that school for a month! How did you possibly—?"

"He made quite an impression with school's female population in that short time," Sam smirked. "Apparently, they all thought he'd look good in a crown doing that stupid parade wave on a float."

"Shut up, Sammy," Dean muttered darkly.

"So, what were the results?" John asked, his curiosity getting the best of him, wondering perhaps if they'd ditched town before the King could fulfill his court duties.

"We moved before all the votes were tallied, thank God," Dean said, eyes rolling heavenward. "You pulled us out of school early that day to rush hour traffic out of town."

"I heard Veronica from Student Council say you were in the lead before we left, Dean," Sam said with a grin. "You were the projected winner."

Dean closed his eyes. "Can we change the topic, _please?" _He opened his eyes again and asked, "So what about you, Dad? You got any good stories you've been holding out on us?"

_The stories I haven't told you boys are enough to fill up a phone book_, John found himself thinking wryly. "I don't know if I've got anything I can tell in public." Even that comment earned him a questioning back glance from a passing waitress.

"How about telling us what you got us for Christmas, then?" Dean asked hopefully as he baptized a french fry in ketchup.

"Nice try," said John, thinking about the small haul of presents stashed in his storage facility outside Buffalo, a good fifty miles away from snooping eyes and prying hands. "I've got one. Did I tell you boys about how I got out pulled over in Belmont last month?"

Sam and Dean both shook their heads, looking curious. Despite all the speeding and mild traffic violations, their father had always managed to avoid catching the attention of the police.

"So I was driving pretty fast along the interstate. I needed to find a priest before the thing in my trunk...well, you can figure it out. And I saw the flashing lights in my rear view mirror and pulled over. So the cop gets out of the squad car and comes over. I see her name's Alvarez. She starts to ask me for my license and registration and I've got my best innocent face on—"

"Did you sweet talk your way out of it, Dad?" Dean interrupted.

"Not exactly," John said, so amused with the telling of his story that he wasn't even annoyed at Dean cutting him off. "I didn't have to. Like I was saying, the cop was following protocol and suddenly she froze, just staring at me real hard. Then she started talking really fast in Spanish, sounding all excited. She leans into my car, is practically hanging off me—not to sound full of myself or anything, but I swear she was downright swooning. I'm completely confused, but I'm able to pick up enough of what she's saying to figure out she thinks I'm some Spanish soap star or something—some guy called Javier Bardem. I realized that if I just played along, I might be able to get off without a ticket. So I just smiled and acted all flattered, and said, 'Si' and 'Muchas gracias' every now and then. Then she gave me the ticket—"

"Seriously?" Sam asked, "Even though she thought you were some celebrity?"

"She gave me the ticket," John repeated, "And wanted me to autograph it. So I signed this dude's name. Hopefully I spelled it right—I made it pretty much illegible on purpose. She thanked me about ten more times and sent me on my way. Scot free."

"Smooth, Dad," said Dean, sounding impressed. "_Very_ smooth."

"That is pretty cool, Dad," Sam admitted. "Now I wanna know what this Javier Bardem guy looks like to see if she was right."

"You and me both, son," said John, looking up as their waitress approached the table again.

"Is everything alright?" Nikki asked pleasantly.

"Awesome," said Dean thickly, past his last mouthful of burger.

"Everything's fine, thank you," said John, reprimanding Dean with a stern look for talking with his mouth full.

Dean swallowed hard. "Sorry. Can I get a refill?"

"Sure thing, sweetie," said Nikki, picking up Dean's empty glass and their empty plates. "Would you like to order anything off our dessert menu?"

John looked at his sons, already knowing their answers before he asked, "What d'you say, boys? Did you leave room for dessert?"

"I've got this," said Dean, wiping his mouth with a napkin in a rare show of etiquette before looking up at Nicki. "Scratch the refill on the Coke. We'll get three slices of apple pie and three frosty chocolate milkshakes."

"Everyone good with that?" Nicki asked the table, not accustomed to one person ordering for everyone.

John's eyes twinkled in amusement, recalling Dean's dessert order had been exactly what he said he'd had at Lizzie's house. He _had _told Dean to take the wheel. "Sounds good to me."

"I guess so," Sam shrugged, not feeling enthused one way or the other.

"I'll finish yours if you don't want it, Sammy," said Dean, as if it was some great and noble sacrifice on his part.

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother, the seemingly bottomless pit. Nikki smiled and said, "I'll be right back," walking away from their table, balancing her tray above her head as she squeezed past another waitress carrying a small feast. Dean tilted his head as he watched her go, regretfully—the one that got away.

"Hey, boys," John said to get their attention. He inclined his head towards the window. "Look outside."

Sam and Dean both looked out the window, where snowflakes the size of quarters were falling thick and fast. "It's snowing!" Sam cheered with childish excitement, looking embarrassed immediately after at his joyous outburst. John had found the effect was endearing rather than unbecoming, instantly transporting his memory back in time to watching four-year-old Sammy bounce up and down outside the window to watch the snow fall, pulling on his boots and running outside before the snowflakes even touched down. He and Dean had to corral Sam back inside to wrestle the wriggling boy into more snow-appropriate attire, trying to get him to sit it out inside in the warmth until there was actually accumulated snow _to _play in.

Dean also seemed unable to contain his excitement. "Do you think it's gonna stick, Dad?"

"I think it already is," said John, watching the black street rapidly turn white. The way his boys practically had their noses and palms pressed against the glass to watch, anyone would think they'd never seen snow in their lives.

Their pie and frosted milkshakes arrived, the latter of which now looked much less appealing with the manifestation of just how cold it already was outside. "Eat fast, boys. Let's get out of here before the roads get too bad," John said, picking up his own fork to dig into the apple pie.

The three Winchesters downed their pie and milkshakes, with Dean predictably finishing off Sam's slice and half of his milkshake. When they were done, Nicki brought them their bill and John pulled out his wallet. "Wait, Dad," said Dean, retrieving his own wallet from his back pocket and handing Nicki his new credit card. "I've got this."

"Thanks, son," John said graciously, knowing their meals was really courtesy of the fictional Walsh Nacklemore II. A moment later Nicki came back with their receipt. John thanked her, left a tip on the table and stood. "Come on. Let's get going." He led the way out of Biggerson's, his sons at his heels. John reached the driver's side before remembering Dean had the keys and was the appointed driver tonight. He moved aside and went over to the passenger door. "Sam! Let's move it," John called before he closed his car door, as Sam was still standing a few paces away from the Impala, staring up at the sky and watching the snow fall. Sam snapped to attention, snow flakes clinging to his hair and eyelashes as he clambered into the backseat. Dean blasted the heat as John asked, "We heading back now, Dean?"

"Just one more stop," said Dean, putting his arm on the backseat as he turned to look over his shoulder, backing out of the parking space. He drove them to the outskirts of town, to a rural, heavily forested area with windy roads. Snow continued to pour down, liberally coating the roads.

"What do you plan on doing way out here, Dean?" John asked, deciding they were too far out in the sticks and the turns of the road were becoming too treacherous for his comfort. His anxiety grew as visibility reduced and the snow on the roads thickened; Dean didn't have much experience with driving in the snow. On more than one occasion he had to restrain himself from grabbing the steering wheel, but Dean always managed to keep them from skidding off the road. "I don't like driving in the snow without chaining up."

"We're almost there," said Dean, turning off the main road and down a straight, narrow path to a clearing in the middle of some woods. He turned off the car and got out, going for the trunk. John and Sam looked at each other, both wondering what Dean was up to. Sam shrugged and dragged himself out of the car, and John followed. They went around to the trunk, flanking Dean on either side as he rummaged around through the hidden weapons compartment.

"Dean," said John, his brow furrowed. "You mind telling me what the hell you dragged us out here for?"

"A hunt," Dean grunted.

Sam and John exchanged another furtive glance. "For what?" they said, in-sync.

"We didn't discuss this, Dean," said John, his disapproval clear that Dean had diverted so far from the play he'd pitched to him. "If I recall correctly, you had said tonight was supposed to be a _distraction_ from hunting."

"It still is," said Dean, straightening up from the trunk with an ax and double-handed crosscut saw in hand. "We're going hunting for the perfect _Christmas_ tree. I mean, the Charlie Brown tree we get every year is cute, but this is the last Christmas where I'm technically a 'kid', and I wanna go big."

"Dean, why can't we just go to a Christmas tree farm like a normal family?" Sam groaned.

"Two reasons, Sammy," said Dean, handing him a flashlight. "One: 'cos we're not a normal family. And two—there's less than a week till Christmas. All the good trees are already taken."

"But Dean, I'm pretty sure it's illegal to just go cutting down trees. This could be private property, or a government-protected forest—"

"So?" Dean scoffed. Sam and his hyperactive Jiminy Cricket complex. "If we cut down a tree in the middle of a forest that's not ours and no one's around to see it, is it still illegal?"

Sam looked to his father, who had been standing impassively, petitioning him for help. "Tell him it's illegal, Dad."

"It's illegal, Dean," said John. He allowed himself a small smile. "But you've already thought of your own morally ethical way around that, haven't you?"

"Indeed I have," said Dean. He set his tools on the ground and pulled a folded-up piece of paper from his pocket, opening it up and holding it under the glow of his flashlight. Sam and John leaned in to read it. "We are standing in a National Forest and this is my $10 permit from the Ranger's Station to cut down the perfect tree. I actually did something by the book for once. I picked up a tree stand, some lights and a box of ornaments, too so we'll actually have something to decorate the tree with."

"When did you have time to get all that stuff, Dean?" John asked.

"I went to Wight's Nursery, when you sent me out on a food run today. It was right next door to the grocery store. The Ranger's Station was a bit more of a drive. But don't worry; Walsh Jr. picked up the tab."

"How much have you been using that card, Dean?" John said with mild disapproval. "The restaurant was one thing, but it's really more intended for emergencies."

"I know. And I won't use it again unless I have to, Dad. I swear," said Dean solemnly.

John sighed. He wasn't a hundred percent sold on Dean's plan, or on encouraging further law-breaking behavior, but he did appreciate the amount of planning Dean had clearly put into the night, so he decided not to bust his balls this time for making non-essential charges on his credit card. John had no objections against getting a real, full-blown tree, apart from how much room it would take up in their miniscule apartment. A bonus was when they were done with the tree, he could strip and sharpen the branches so he'd have enough evergreen stakes to take out most every troublesome pagan god he encountered for the rest of his life.

"Happy now?" Dean turned to Sam, relieved that it looked like he was off the hook for now.

"Yeah, actually," Sam said, secretly impressed. "...Jerk."

"Bitch," Dean immediately retorted, giving Sam a good-natured shove. Arms full, Sam stumbled and retaliated by kicking Dean in the shin.

"That's enough, boys," shaking his head, John stooped down, picking up his tools and turning on his own flashlight. "Come on, you knuckleheads. Let's get our tree."

As they made their way into the tree line John asked, "Any more detours you made when I sent you out to the store that you wanna tell me about, Dean? Or should I start keeping a log for the odometer?"

"Nope," said Dean innocently. "I told you everything, Dad, I swear."

"All the preparation you've done," said John, who was secretly impressed with his eldest, "You must've been pretty confident I was going to say yes to this whole thing."

"More hopeful than confident," Dean admitted. "I kept all my receipts." He slowed to a stop. "Thanks, Dad. For changing your mind."

John also momentarily halted, letting out his customary uncomfortable grunt reserved for whenever Dean thanked him for something he had a God-given right to, like having time with his family where they weren't stuck together in the car driving cross-country, fighting monsters—or having a real Christmas tree. "Come on."

The Winchesters each carried a tool and a flashlight. They stopped and checked out a dozen or more trees, always finding some fault or being unable to unanimously decide on a tree. If the tree had bald spots, looked too dry, if the branches unevenly spaced or the tree looked at all lopsided, they moved on. To avoid arguments, John set a simple rule: if they couldn't all agree on a tree, they moved on. The snow continued to fall thick and fast, most of the snow accumulating on the branches overhead. As night set in deeper the temperature continued to drop. "Come on, boys. It's getting late and the road's are going to worse when they freeze over. Next halfway decent tree we see, we're getting it."

"How about this one, Dad?" Sam called. Dean and John immediately moved over to inspect it.

"_Nice one, _Sammy!" Dean exclaimed, slapping Sam on the back before circling the balsam fir to survey it from every angle.

"It's a beauty, kiddo," John agreed. "In fact, I think it's the best tree we've seen all night."

"It's perfect," Dean announced, emerging from behind the tree. "Everyone good with this one?"

Sam and John both answered in the affirmative. Dean picked up the ax as Sam scrambled for his flashlight, holding it over the tree trunk as Dean took a few swings at it, leaving a sizable notch in the trunk. Dean picked up the crosscut saw, and John took the other handle. Sam stood off to the side and held the flashlight, shivering as he trained it on the trunk as his Dad and brother sawed through it. After a few minutes, the tree began to lean heavily in the direction Sam was standing in.

Dean and John straightened up, both protectively ushering Sam out of the way, backing up as the tree strained against the remaining fiber of its trunk. Dean cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, "TIIIIIIIIMBER!" as the tree came crashing down with a thud muffled against the snow, right where Sam had been standing moments before.

Grinning, Dean took up the ax and severed the remaining tendrils tying the tree to its stump. "There!" he said, triumphantly stepping one foot up on the stump of the tree he'd dominated.

"Some Lorax you are, Dean," Sam said dryly.

As John and Dean evened out the trunk of the tree, a large shape moving in the distance got his eye. Stepping cautiously closer and staring around a tree trunk. Shining his flashlight into the darkness, he saw it was a doe. He watched her as the deer stared steadily, curiously back at him. He was about to beckon his Dad and Dean over when he heart his father yell, "You ready, kiddo?" The deer gave a start and ran off through the trees. Sam sighed regretfully, traipsing back to rejoin his family. His Dad and brother were watching him, supporting the tree between the two of them, with John holding up the top and bulk of the branches and Dean taking the base. "See something out there, Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam exclaimed, running over to them, a wide smile fixed on his face. "A deer—you should've seen it! You guys need any help?"

"I think we've got it, squirt," Dean said, adjusting the trunk stub on his shoulder. "But if you can grab the flashlights..."

Sam obediently gathered up the two other flashlights, juggling the three lights and shovel in his hands. Dean and John had the other tools, each supporting the tree over one shoulder with one hand. Sam ran ahead with the three flashlights, lighting their path. Navigating their way back to the car was easy; they just had to backtrack over their three sets of boot prints in the snow. Thanks to the tree coverage, much of the snow had fallen on branches and most of their footsteps were still fresh enough to make out.

Sam took the tools from his family and deposited them in the trunk, retrieving a thin coil of rope. John and Dean hefted the tree onto the roof of the car, with John being overtly mindful of the paint job. Dean got into the car and started it, cracking the windows enough to run the rope through them.

John and Dean stood on opposite sides of the car with the doors open, John threading the rope through the interior, Dean grabbing the lead on the other end, throwing it over the tree on top of the car to John, and the cycle would repeat. When they'd reached the end of the length of rope, they shut the car doors and rolled up the windows. Dean helped John put chains on the tires, and then John went about making sure the tree was secure and the knots were held good and tight.

Free from his tree-securing and tire-chaining duties, Dean ran around to the other side of the car, bent down on one knee, and scooped up a handful of snow, compacting it into a ball with his bare hands. He wound up his arm. "Yo, Sammy—think fast!"

Sam turned just in time to see a snowball heading straight for his face. He instinctively ducked. The snowball missed its intended target and carried on, hitting the back of John's neck. He froze. So did Sam and Dean.

"_You are so dead,_" Sam mouthed to Dean, who was wide-eyed, balled-up fist pressed to his lips as he waited for the inevitable onslaught.

John shook the remnants of the snowball from his coat, hunching his shoulders and cracking his neck on either side. His voice was deadly low and dangerous when he said, "Oh, boys...you're gonna wish you hadn't started this..."

The Winchester brothers had just inadvertently declared war.

Sam and Dean ducked and ran for cover as John knelt down, gathering snow into his hands and forming two nearly perfectly round snowballs. Sam crouched behind the other side of the Impala, Dean behind a large boulder, as they each built up a snowball arsenal of their own. Silence hung over the air, each waiting for the first snowball to fly. A nearby tree branch, over-loaded with snow, tipped its load onto the ground. That was all the instigation the Winchesters needed for the snowballs to start flying. It was a free-for-all, no teams or allegiances, every man for himself. They each had their advantages. John had a good arm and deadly accuracy. Sam was small and fast, an almost constantly moving target, only stopping to re-load. Dean was a master at striking fast and hard and retreating. Each was highly trained, adapting their hunting skills to suit a simple snowball fight. Though the battle was fierce, it was all in good fun, with unspoken rules like no concealing rocks in the snowballs and absolutely no crotch-shots.

Sam crawled out on his elbows from beneath the car, sending a snowball flying at Dean as he streaked, crouched down low, to the edge of the woods. Dean felt Sam's snowball hit his back and whirled around, arm raised in retaliation. Poised to send a barrage of snowballs his brother's way, he saw John was poised to fire as well—on him. Both threw their respective snowballs. John dove out of the way and dodged Dean's, as Dean threw himself behind the boulder, John's snowball hitting the top of the rock and broke apart, globs of snow raining down on Dean's face—a partial hit. They had each gotten in their share of direct hits, but the clear winner was John, and Dean a close second. Sam had been surprisingly fierce in battle, but still didn't quite live up to the ruthless brutality of the senior Winchesters.

"Cease fire," John ordered after several minutes of battle, leaning against the car. He'd had his payback and got in some training for the boys as well, whether they realized it or not. He'd showed only slightly more restraint than the enemy would have (if they'd been armed with snowballs), but had now ultimately decided to be merciful. "Game over. Come on out, boys."

Dean poked his head tentatively around the boulder as Sam emerged from behind a tree trunk. "Really? No fast ones?"

"Really," said John, beckoning his sons forward and opening up the back passenger door. "Neither of you boys are dressed for snow and I'm not about to stand around and watch you two get frostbite. Get in."

Now that the fight had cooled down, Sam realized for the first time the tingling, burning numbness in his own glove-less hands, and followed his Dad's order with much more finesse than usual, running over to the car and launching himself into the backseat. "I'm driving this time," said John as Dean approached. "The roads are going to be a bitch." Dean nodded, getting into the passenger side. They sat with the car idling until the heat kicked in. Ignoring his own freezing hands on the steering wheel, he motioned with his head towards the heating vents. "Unthaw yourselves." It was an order, and Sam and Dean leaned in, warming their hands against the streaming heat like it was a camp fire.

Satisfied his boys wouldn't need to have any digits amputated, John executed an expert two-point turn and drove back to the main road, driving much slower than he usually would have due to the hazardous road conditions. No one talked, as John was focused on navigating them home safely, staying on the road and avoiding black ice, not entirely trusting the chains. But it was a comfortable silence, with the radio on low, just loud enough to recognize what song was playing. Right now, it was Frank Sinatra crooning, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." Sam contentedly watched the snowy landscape pass by the windows outside, all the trees, cars and rooftops covered in a thick blanket of snow. "It's beautiful out there," said Sam in awe.

"It sure is, Sammy," said John, taking his eyes off the road for a brief second, long enough to smile at Sam in the rear view mirror.

Ah, his father and brother agreeing on something! Dean sat back happily, an irrepressible grin on his face. Everything was going according to plan.

TBC

...

AN: I know, Dean's a bit of a lad here. But looking at his libido in S1 especially, I imagine he was even worse as a teenager! (Also judging from the episode "After School Special", which takes place not long before this story). Also, this is 1996. Looking at his IMDB page, I saw that Javier hadn't had his big break in America yet, but I hear Jeffrey Dean Morgan compared to him so often that I wanted to slip it into a fic!

I had a blast writing this fic, and I hope that if you've made it this far, you're enjoying reading it :) One more chapter to go!


	3. Chapter 3

John and Dean loosened the rope from around the tree and shook it free of snow before hauling it up the four flights of outdoor stairs to the apartment while Sam carried a few items Dean requested he take inside: the multi-colored box of lights, the ornaments, and the tree stand.

Once in the apartment, John and Dean leaned the tree against the wall while they freed up a corner of the main room, dragging an arm-chair over a few feet closer to the couch. Their sad little Charlie Brown tree was demoted to the corner by the door with their shoes. Sam set the tree base down and John lowered the trunk of the tree into the center while Dean and Sam tightened the bolts into place. John stood back, eyeballing the tree before declaring it was even and filled the stand with water to keep the branches from drying out.

Dean tore into the box of lights, stringing them around the tree and between the branches, passing the strand over to John to get around the confines of the corner, the only place their tree would fit in the cramped apartment. When the lights were all strung, Dean plugged it in, illuminating the tree. "Real good work there, Dean," said John proudly, clapping Dean on the shoulder. Under his father's praise, it was hard to say what was glowing more, Dean or the tree.

"Where'd Sammy get to?" said Dean, looking behind him to see his younger brother was nowhere in sight. No sooner had the words left his mouth then Sam emerged from the kitchen, carrying three steaming mugs on a plate. "Whatcha got there, kiddo?" John asked, sniffing to be sure it wasn't coffee.

"I thought we were all probably still pretty cold, so I made some hot chocolate," Sam explained as he approached, being careful not to spill. John and Sam accepted the drinks gratefully, cupping their still-chilled hands around the base of their mugs, both murmuring their thanks. Sam set the plate down on the coffee table and picked up his own mug.

"That's pretty good," said Dean, after taking a sip. "Lemme guess—not too hot, extra, chocolate, shaken not, stirred, right, Judy? Took you 1200 years to get the recipe right?"

"You've seen that movie _way_ too many times, Dean," said Sam.

"What're you talking about? It's heartwarming!" Dean retaliated with such vigor that it caused John to snort into his hot chocolate. Dean opened up the box of glass bobble ornaments, and the three of them hung the decorations on the tree.

"I thought they'd fill up the tree more," Dean said regretfully, disappointed at the sparse decorations spread out over the tree. "I should've got another box..."

John could see exactly what Dean meant; the ornament to branch ratio made their tree look rather sad and naked. "Wait one second. I have an idea." John went out to the parking lot, retrieving a few boxes from his trunk and from beneath his car seat. He carried them back up to the apartment, setting them on the coffee table. "I figure we'll just have to get creative."

"No way!" Dean laughed, holding up the infamous beer can wreath his Dad had lifted from a liquor store years before. "Oh man, I'd almost forgotten about this!"

"We still have that thing?" Sam said, moving closer.

"Of course we do, Sammy," said Dean. "You can't throw out a cherished family heirloom like this!"

Dean went over to the wall, hanging the Budweiser-sponsored wreath off a bent nail. "Now if that doesn't scream class and sophistication, I don't know what does."

Smiling, John removed the lid from a box of his hunting equipment. "Well boys, what d'you say?"

And so the Winchester family went about adorning their Christmas tree with rather unconventional ornaments: anti-possession relics and crosses, protective charms and mojo bags (which Sam commented looked like they could be Santa's sack of presents to the unknowing eye). They hung fishing lure from John's tackle box, and spent gold shotgun shells were a surprisingly elegant touch on the tips of the branches.

"And now for the finishing touch," said Dean, handing Sam a silver pentagram.

Sam took the pagan relic, looking confused. There was nothing to hang it by. "Dean, what—?"

The next thing Sam knew, he felt a pair of hands grip him beneath his armpits and lift off his feet by Dean, raising him up toward the tree top. "Dean, put me down!" Dean ignored him. "Come on, Tiny Tim. Top it off."

Sam reached out and slid the middle of the pentagram over the branch at the top of the tree, which was nearly scraping the ceiling. "Perfect," John said, as Dean lowered Sam back to the ground and he yanked his shirt back down where it had ridden up, looking indignant.

John, Dean, and Sam stood back to admire their work. The tree was certainly unusual, but there was an undeniable charm about it, too—the traditional mixed with the unorthodox and the downright strange. Not to mention the tree provided protection against almost every supernatural entity there was. The pine scent was also a welcome distraction from the smell of the musty, aged apartment.

"Boys," said John, putting an arm around either of his sons as the three of them gazed at the tree. "I can say with every confidence that there's never been another Christmas tree quite like this," said John. Sam and Dean nodded in solemn agreement.

"What now, Dean?" Sam asked, still staring in wonder at tree, the twinkling lights and glowing orbs reflected in his eyes.

Dean tore his eyes away from the tree and glanced at his watch—it was nearly ten o'clock. He had promised the night's activities were only be a couple of hours, and he knew there were important things that he was keeping the rest of his family from. He'd originally planned on playing some sort of board game like he had at Lizzie's house, but Sam was right—they didn't have any. Not to mention every time his family had tried to play a game that had been left behind by some previous owners, there had always been missing pieces or incomplete instructions, meaning they'd had to improvise and make up the rules. And since they were a family full of stubborn alpha males with healthy competitive streaks, maybe he would be avoiding World War III and salvaging an overall enjoyable night by just concluding things here. He knew that his Dad and Sammy had been playing nice for his sake, and they probably wouldn't be able to keep up the act for much longer, anyway.

"Nothing," said Dean, shrugging. "That's it. That's all I planned. You're free to go to your separate corners of the apartment again."

John and Sam stayed rooted where they were. "...I said you could go," said Dean, wondering if they'd heard him right the first time.

"What about the game?" said Sam, "I thought you said we were gonna play a game, too."

"Decorating the tree was the game, Sammy," Dean said off-the-cuff, surprised that his brother actually sounded _disappointed _that the night was coming to an end.

"Oh," said Sam quietly. He looked from Dean to their Dad and back. "I'm not tired yet," he offered. "...maybe we can watch a movie?"

John's eyebrows rose in surprise. His Sammy, who he'd become accustomed to responding to forced family activities with scorn ever since he'd entered puberty, who was going through a phase where he would rather stay cooped up in his room on the computer all hours of the day than have human interactions, was not only_ agreeing _to spend more time with his family, but being the one to suggest it?! He had half a mind to check his forehead to see if he was feverish.

"Um, sure, Sammy," said Dean, who was wearing a similar expression of surprise. "Why not? The night's still young-ish. How about you see what's on TV?"

"Okay," said Sam brightly, dropping to his knees in front of the TV and beginning to channel surf. "Hey—_Christmas Vacation _is just starting!"

"Awesome," Dean exclaimed. "Dad, are you okay with—Dad?" he turned to see John walking away. Sam looked up as well, his smile fading, "Aren't you gonna watch it with us, Dad?"

John turned, pausing in the doorway of the kitchen. "_Christmas Vacation?_ Are you kidding me? Of course I'm watching. Just getting some popcorn."

"Try not to blow up the microwave, Dad!" Dean called, plopping down on the couch next to Sam and putting his feet up on the coffee table.

"It's Jiffy Pop," John yelled back.

"Yeah, that's what we're afraid of," Sam snickered, low enough so only Dean could hear.

Their father's cooking abilities (or lack of them) was usually free game for a good natured ribbing, and even tolerated by John, to an extent. He was thick skinned as long as their teasing wasn't excessive or crossed the line into being disrespectful. But as with everything, his sons would first gauge his mood before joking around—poking the bear when he was in a foul mood was always a mistake. Tonight John was in relatively good spirits and his sons knew they could push the envelope a bit more than usual without getting verbally reprimanded for mouthing off.

"You know what you should've bought at the store, Dean?" said Sam, "One of those big frozen cookie dough tubes, where you just slice the dough and bake it? We could do that, we actually have an oven for once—"

"No way, Sammy," said Dean, shaking his head dismissively. "That stuff's meant to be eaten _raw, _dude. Straight outta the tube. Besides, can you imagine Dad in oven mitts?"

Sam did try to imagine it, but John Winchester and domesticity just did not mesh, even in his own mind's eye. "Honestly, no. No more than I can imagine him in an apron." The brothers shared another laugh at their father's expense, immediately halting when they saw John emerge in the doorway with a bowl in his hands.

"I heard that," John said wryly, crossing the room. "I can't cook—I get it. Rub it in," he sat down next to Sam, and his sons relaxed considerably to see he was smirking. He plonked the bowl down on the coffee table in front of them and said gruffly, "Now eat your burnt popcorn, you little ingrates."

Drowned in butter and liberally sprinkled with salt, Sam and Dean agreed that the popcorn was actually one of their father's better attempts to make something edible—if they picked around the worst of the burnt kernels.

As they watched the film, Dean wondered if perhaps he should be the one in the middle instead of Sam, a buffer between his father and brother in case they found something to argue over: the TV volume, the length of Sam's hair, whether or not the moon landing had been staged...They were long overdue for a confrontation and any topic was fair game. It was Sam he was really worried about, but for a kid who couldn't stand to be in his father's immediate presence, he didn't seem to mind the seating arrangement too much.

The Winchester family enjoyed watching _National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation _every bit as much as they had in years past. The humor was right up their alley—Dean's especially. The number of times Sam had asked Dean a question in an accusing tone and he'd responded with, "I don't KNOW, Margo!" was a testament to it. They also found reassurance in the reminder that a "normal" family's attempt to have the ideal Christmas could be every bit as disastrous as some of theirs.

"_Where's the Tylenol?"_

The movie cut to commercial break after the largely censored-for-TV scene where Clark finally gets his big bonus. "Hey, Sammy, did you see that?" Dean said, still chuckling over his favorite scene in the movie apart from the jewelery sales girl and waxing the sled: Clark's rant after getting his membership in the Jelly of the Month Club.

"Yeah," said Sam, yawning as he shook himself out of micro sleep. He rubbed his eyes sleepily and droned, "'S really funny, Dean..."

Dean snapped his fingers in front of Sam's face. "Come on, Sam—look alive. It's almost over."

"I'm awake," said Sam, blinking rapidly, determined to finish the movie. His body was still used to his school schedule and he was usually in bed by now. He grabbed a handful of cold popcorn from the bottom of the bowl and sifted through, picking out the unpopped kernels.

Dean got up and went down the hall to the bathroom, his bladder really starting to feel the strain of a Coke, one and a half milkshakes and a mug of hot chocolate. When he'd finished relieving himself, he went back out to the living room, stopping when he only saw the back of his Dad's head over the cushions of the couch. "Where's Sammy? Did he go to bed?"

John turned his head to look at Dean, pressing a finger to his lips. Curious, Dean moved around the side of the couch, and what he saw stopped him in his tracks by the unexpected scene before him. "Aww," he said, cocking his head to one side endearingly. "Well, aren't you two all cozy?

"I'm just as surprised as you are," said John with a bemused expression, gazing down at his lap, where his small thirteen year-old-son had laid down his head and curled into his side, as if he had regressed to a time when it wasn't mortifying to fall asleep on his Dad. "He kept nodding off and jerking awake. I stopped him from doing a face-plant into the coffee table, then he sort of just slumped over. I think he was too tired to realize—" John swallowed hard, the pain in his eyes expressing the sorrow he felt over the distance that had grown between him and his youngest son. He carded his hand through Sam's overgrown hair. "Sammy hasn't fallen asleep like this since...I can't even remember when."

Dean reclaimed his spot on the couch, lifting up Sam's feet and sliding back into his seat, letting Sam's legs and feet extend over his lap. "I think that's normal, Dad. Kids his age are all piss and vinegar and bad poetry," Dean said as Sam stretched, oblivious that he was using his father and brother as human pillows as he tossed and turned over, kicking and elbowing them in the process. Sam let out a sigh, throwing his arm over his eyes and forcibly reminding John of the toddler who would come running into his room in the dead of night after a nightmare and be a restless (though very cuddly) bed hog. "But just look how adorable he is!" Dean said in a mock-sappy voice.

"I don't how he grew up so fast," said John sadly. "Either of you. You'll be eighteen next month, Sammy will be fourteen in May...Sam was right, earlier. I guess I just wish I'd been around for more of it."

Dean shifted awkwardly as the commercial ended and said quietly, "Come on, Dad. You were, whenever you could. You've always done what you had to."

Dean's reassurance did little to ease John's guilty conscience. Dean may give him a free pass for his absences and shortcomings, but he knew that wasn't the case with Sam. He knew because Sam told him every damn day all the ways he was screwing up—testing his limits, pushing him, and John pushed right back, the two in disharmony as their differences forced them to clash and become locked in a never-ending battle of wills, with poor, long-suffering Dean always left to pick of the pieces and try to mend the damage, putting a Band-Aid over their bruised egos.

"I just wish Sam could see it that way," said John thickly, pressing the heel of his palm into the bridge of his nose as he stared down at his youngest, still sound asleep, his breathing even and shallow. "Sometimes I worry that he's not fully committed. He's so damn worried about being _normal. _He can't try to live with a foot in each life. It's dangerous. He needs to have his eyes one-hundred percent on the goal."

"Don't worry, Dad," said Dean, "It's just something he needs to get out of his system. He'll come around eventually. And right now, I'd say everything's better than it's been in a long time."

"I guess you're right, son," said John, tearing his gaze from Sam to smile fondly at his eldest child.

John and Dean watched the rest of the movie in companionable silence, laughing where appropriate, but quietly, with the TV turned down, so they wouldn't wake Sam. Uncle Eddie's sewer tank blew Santa's sleigh and reindeer lawn decorations into the sky and Aunt Bethany sang "The Star Spangled Banner" as SWAT team members partied in Griswold house as Clark stood outside and gave himself a pat on the back for a job well credits rolled and John used the remote to turn off the TV. "Okay. I say we call it a night, kiddo."

Dean nodded. "What should we do with Sammy?" Sam was still passed out, a dead weight laying across them, snoring lightly.

"He's not staying out here, that's for sure. He'd need a tetanus shot after sleeping on this couch," said John, gently shaking Sam's shoulder. "Hey, Sammy. Buddy, wake up."

Sam remained unresponsive, mouth open wide, in a slumber to rival Sleeping Beauty. "Too late," said Dean, "When he gets to the drooling stage, the best chance you have of waking him up is an air horn."

John looked sharply at Dean. "You've never—"

"No, I haven't" said Dean quickly. "It was just an example."

"Good—just checking. Well, we're gonna have to move him one way or another," John sighed. "Come on. We'll carry him. Just like with the tree." Dean eased out from beneath Sam and gripped his ankles as John secured a hold around Sam's upper body. The two of them carried the youngest Winchester down the hall and into Sam and Dean's shared bedroom. They laid Sam down on his bed, and taking note that he'd probably freeze sleeping in his jeans still dampened from the snow, made a joint effort of peeling the sodden denim from Sam's skinny legs.

"That kid could seriously use a burger or ten, heart attacks be damned," said Dean, pulling the covers out from beneath Sam and covering him up as John went to hang Sam's damp jeans over the radiator to dry.

"He'll fill out eventually," said John offhandedly, searching around Sam's desk. "You wouldn't know where Sam has that extra copy of that dinosaur essay, do you, Dean?"

"Um...it might be in here," said Dean, reaching for a manila file on the drawer below Sam's keyboard. "Yep. Here it is," he said, handing the stapled packet to his father.

"Thanks," said John, his eyes skimming the blurry title and introductory paragraph. But the light in the boys room was dimmed for Sam and his eyes weren't quite what they used to be—too many late nights straining to read ancient, cramped texts under the overhead light in the Impala. He'd read the rest in his office, with his reading glasses that his kids didn't know he had or needed. He'd never live down the "old man" taunts if they knew. "You turning in, Dean?"

His timing was impeccable, as Dean chose that moment to yawn. "Yeah," he said widely. "I think so."

"Good," said John curtly. "Don't forget, I still need you up bright and early tomorrow to help me with the case. Caleb finished your FBI ID card. You're Agent Kirdst, 21, fresh out of the academy and on your first case." He reached into his wallet and handed Dean the fake ID. "Congratulations."

"_Awesome!" _Dean exclaimed, eagerly taking the card and examining every inch of it.

"You're only to use that card when you're with me. No flashing it around or using it to impress girls. If you get caught impersonating a Federal Agent we're all in for a world of hurt. I'll give you your badge tomorrow. Now get some sleep. We're leaving at 0800 tomorrow. So don't forget to set your alarm."

"Yes, Sir!" said Dean, tearing his eyes away from his card long enough to make eye contact with his father to show he was listening. "0800. Got it."

"...so you'll want to set your alarm for?"

"Oh, right. I mean 0700," said Dean, once again distracted by his badge. He looked up when he felt his father's hand on his shoulder.

"Dean, I um..." John faltered, "I wanted to thank you. You're right—tonight...it was exactly what we all needed. I know I'm always saying family's what's most important, and no one gets that better than you. So I guess...thanks for helping me to practice what I preach."

"No problem, Dad," said Dean, looking taken aback. John's fingers tightened on Dean's shoulder, relaxed, and then gave his shoulder a hearty clap before turning away.

"Goodnight, Dean," said John, pausing in the doorway.

"'Night Dad," Dean called, with a small wave. John closed the door carefully behind him, knowing how the lock had a habit of sticking.

Dean stripped out of his snow-dampened jeans, hanging them over the radiator beside Sam's pair, turned off the light, and clambered into bed. He stared up at the ceiling with his fingers interlaced behind his head, reliving the evening's events, which had for the most part played at better than he ever could have hoped, even better than at Lizzie's. He honestly didn't care what he got for Christmas at this point; all he ever wanted was for his family to be together, united for a common cause. Tonight, he'd felt closer to that Utopia than he had in years. And in that, Dean Winchester already had everything he wanted.

THE END

...

AN: Yes, I watched _Christmas Vacation _the same day I wrote this part, in case you were wondering!

I liked having the boys joking around with their Dad. We saw John make a few jokes himself during his time on the show, and I wanted to show that side of the family more.

Who else wants a Winchester Christmas tree?

Also, the scene where Sam fell asleep on John like he was three again? I had the idea, and I had to write it. I hope I was able to write it a fraction as cute as it was in my head!

Wheeelp, that's it, folks! I hope you enjoyed! Happy Holidays! :)


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